ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a soft, distant watercolor. He watched her, the curve of her neck illuminated by the warm lamplight, her focus entirely on the world she was creating on the canvas of his skin. Her fingers, cool at first, traced a slow, deliberate path up his forearm, a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver straight to his core. A soft sigh escaped his lips as her thumb pressed gently into his palm, unraveling the day’s tension with each deliberate rotation. He leaned back, his eyes closing, surrendering to the exquisite simplicity of her attention. The air grew thick with a shared, unspoken understanding, a current of electricity that needed no words. Every stroke of her hand was a promise, a slow-burning fuse that lit a warmth deep within his belly. He could feel his own heartbeat thrumming in his wrists, a frantic drum answering the slow, rhythmic cadence of her movements. This was more than mere touch; it was a conversation spoken in the language of pulse and breath, a quiet storm building between them. In that suspended moment, there was only the gentle friction of her skin against his and the overwhelming gratitude for this profound, intimate gift.
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